


Look After You

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, F/M, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 01:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3917437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world might be changing, but Clint and Natasha always have each other's back. </p><p>(Missing scenes for Age of Ultron.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look After You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/works) for cheerleading and beta. Thanks also to [queenofthepuddingbrains](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddinbrains/works) for being my all-around partner in crime.

Natasha knows it’s bad when Clint goes down and stays there. She’s seen him fight through gunshot wounds, broken bones, and once, a lacerated artery. Watching his still form against the snow, her mind flashes to the worst case--dangerous, in the middle of a fire fight--and she forces it away. She has the rest of the team to think about, and the rest of the world too, but in the time it takes her to get to his side, she can’t seem to make those things matter.

He’s alive--at least she can tell that much from the pained sound of his breathing. He has his eyes screwed shut in agony, though, blood melting the snow beneath him. The wound in his side is deep, she sees immediately, a crater of burned flesh and melted fabric. It’s a wonder the shot didn’t go straight through the abdominal wall and expose vital organs, though there’s no real way to tell what the damage might be here in the field. She hesitates for a moment before reaching for the little med kit on her belt. The pouch of rapidly-expanding gauze had seemed almost ludicrous when Bruce designed it, but now it’s exactly what she needs.

“Clint,” she says firmly, hesitating before making her next move, if only because she knows it’s going to hurt him like hell. “Can you hear me?”

His only response is a grunt, and she isn’t sure what it’s supposed to mean. He’s losing too much blood to wait any longer, though.

“This is going to hurt,” she tells him, aware that it’s probably the understatement of the century. “Do me a favor and try not to pass out.”

She doesn’t give herself any more time for doubts, packing the gauze against the wound and applying pressure, trying not to think about how quickly it’s already getting soaked with blood. Clint makes a ragged noise of pain in response, a sound that twists something inside her own chest. Natasha reaches out with her free hand to check his pulse, panics for a moment when she feels nothing, then remembers the heavy leather of her gloves.

“Your hands are cold,” Clint breathes, barely a whisper but enough to make out.

She rolls her eyes at him, aims at levity. “Yeah, well, I’m a little busy here keeping your insides from falling out. Did you really need to be the center of attention today?”

Clint does his best to shrug, gasping when she manages to tug her glove off with her teeth and presses her bare fingers to the skin of his throat. His pulse is racing far too quickly but it’s there, and it’s strong.

“You think I’m gonna let some Enhanced kid steal my thunder?” he asks.

“True,” she deadpans, aware that the gauze is already saturated with blood as she uses her other hand to hit the comms, signal the rest of the team. “You are getting a little old to save the world. Seize the glory while you still can.”

She thinks he attempts to smile at that, but the pain twists it into a grimace, and she can’t help but notice how pale he’s gone.

“Don’t forget,” Natasha tells him, “if you die on me, I’ll kill you.”

This time he doesn’t respond at all, and she’s never been so glad to feel the shifting wind that signals Thor’s approach a moment later.

* * *

Having miraculous new skin, it turns out, does little to dull the pain. It’s something to do with nerve sensitivity and inflammation that Dr. Cho’s machine doesn't handle, so he’s stuck with it for the next couple days. At least, Clint is pretty sure that’s what she’s said. He lost track of time in the lab, dozing off again sometime after Natasha and Tony had left, the sun considerably lower in the sky when he’d woken to the end of the procedure. 

He insists on walking unassisted back to his quarters, because it’s not exactly like Tony’s equipped the Tower with wheelchairs, and he sure as hell isn’t about to accept being carried by Steve or Thor. The dizziness and nausea Clint recognizes as the result of bleeding for several hours make it slow going, though, and he’s both relieved and unsurprised when he finds Natasha waiting outside his door. She must have been notified when the procedure ended--she’s showered and changed, looks far too rested to have been waiting here all day.

“Could’ve let yourself in,” he tells her, by way of greeting.

Natasha shrugs, moving to punch in the code and open the door before he has a chance to try, almost as if proving his point. “What, and risk putting you back into shock? Seems like you’ve had more than enough drama for one day.” 

She gives him a little smile, nudges his shoulder as he moves past her, and doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s still too far gone to figure out a good comeback. Logically, Clint knows that he isn’t dying. He heard all of Helen’s fancy explanations, and knows that his friends would never allow it besides. But maybe it’s more than just the nerves in his side that have yet to catch up with reality, because he can’t shake the feeling of chilling unease, like he might still be about to step off an invisible cliff at any moment. 

Clint considers the kitchen and the couch, then thinks better of it and heads straight into the bedroom, leaving Natasha behind for the moment. He changes quickly into the first t-shirt and pair of sweats he can find, then stretches out gingerly on the bed that will forever seem ridiculously large and plush. Tony has a decent enough aesthetic, but it’s all a bit much for Clint’s taste. 

“JARVIS, turn on the television,” he instructs, deciding that the giant flat screen on the wall opposite his bed is one thing he definitely doesn’t mind about this place. And he can’t exactly argue with the ability to turn it on without moving, either.

Natasha comes in a moment later, glancing absently at the screen before moving to perch on the other side of the bed. 

“Here,” she says gently, handing over a bottle of Powerade and a box of saltine crackers he can’t remember buying. She glances up at the television, which is currently playing an episode of House Hunters, then slips off her shoes and stretches out beside him, on top of the covers.

Clint grunts as he sits up, which sends pain shooting through his side again. The new skin is hypersensitive; it feels raw somehow, like he might start bleeding again at any moment. He runs a hand over it absently, which sends an odd prickling sensation through the spot, then pulls away just as quickly, trying to shake off the feeling. He turns his attention to the Powerade, but it’s a struggle trying to get the top off with his hands feeling like they’re made of rubber.

Natasha doesn’t say anything, just takes the bottle from him and opens it before handing it back. “No falling asleep until you’ve had all of that.”

Clint gives her a look, taking a drink. “I know the drill.”

She opens the box of crackers carefully, then snags a handful before placing it back on his side of the bed. On television, the husband of this episode’s couple is detailing his list of demands for a man cave in his new home, which he clearly is not going to be able to find for his ridiculously stingy budget. 

“Never gonna happen,” Clint says to the screen, eating a couple of crackers and swallowing them with effort. They taste like cardboard and he’s pretty sure his digestive system’s still mostly shut down from adrenaline.

“If only he had your wisdom to guide him,” Natasha deadpans. She isn’t looking at the television, though, Clint realizes--she’s studying him instead.

“What?” he asks lightly, though he’s pretty sure he already knows. This was the closest call either of them has had in nearly a year. They’ve grown accustomed to stability, are out of practice living with death just on the other side of every blind curve. “Waiting for me to go full android on you?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. An android would be too logical to lecture the people inside the moving picture box.”

“You want to feel my robot skin?” asks Clint, hiking his shirt up and poking it again, then trying to suppress a shudder at the sensation. It feels _wrong_ somehow, like it might not really be attached to his body the way he knows it is.

“I don’t know,” says Natasha. “Is it going to zap me?” She finishes her crackers and moves closer, reaching out to run her fingers lightly over the preternaturally smooth skin.

Clint shivers again as tendrils of sensation crawl up and down his side. “Seems like it probably won’t kill you.” He takes another drink of Powerade, getting close to finishing the thing, though it doesn’t seem to be doing anything to make him actually feel better.

“Dr. Cho’s got some great tech,” says Natasha, but when she meets his eyes, he can tell that isn’t really what she means. _Thank you for being alive,_ is what he sees in her face, and Clint swallows, steadfastly focusing his attention on the television. He isn’t ready to discuss that right now, isn’t ready to face the reality that an injury like this with another team--with S.H.I.E.L.D, even--probably would have meant his death.

“Yeah,” he agrees absently, rubbing the spot again as it throbs dully. He takes the last gulp of Powerade and sets the empty bottle on the nightstand, shivering at the feeling of sweat drying on his skin. Another after effect of the blood loss, he knows, but it’s making him feel fevered, or perhaps as if he might have brought some of the Sokovian cold back with him. 

“Need another blanket?” asks Natasha, because of course she hasn’t missed that.

He shakes his head stubbornly. “I should call the boss.” Laura will be expecting him to check in, he knows, and the last thing he wants is to give her the impression that anything is seriously wrong. Unfortunately his phone happens to be in the pocket of the pants he’s discarded on the floor, and moving is about the least palatable thing he can think of right now.

“Already did it,” Natasha answers, and there’s a hint of smugness in her face. “She says sleep well, call her in the morning.”

Clint groans. “You told her, didn’t you.” He’s been working on his angle-- _they had weapons, one of them grazed me, but it’s no big deal, won’t even scar_ \--but he’s certain Natasha won’t have been nearly so generous. The women in his life have a terrible habit of conspiring to worry about him.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Like she wouldn’t have asked me anyway?”

He throws an arm over his eyes theatrically, and instantly regrets it when another sharp pain shoots down his side. “Terrible, the both of you.”

“Hey, at least I don’t want three bedrooms and a jacuzzi for under a hundred thousand dollars,” she teases, and Clint can feel the mattress shifting as she gets up. 

He doesn’t stir yet, just listens to the sounds of her moving around his room and tries to ignore how terrible he’s still feeling. He opens his eyes again when Natasha drapes another layer of blankets over him, reaching up to catch her hand and squeeze it gently before she moves away. “Thanks.”

She nods once, giving him a little smile that says she won’t be going far. “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Even at home, in his own bed, sleep was probably far too much to hope for after the past twenty four hours. Clint can feel the exhaustion heavy in his chest, but the adrenaline is still winning--the memories of his team, shaken to their core, the knowledge that he’s heading back into the field in less than three hours, the unexpected trip home making that reality somehow more painful. Finally he gives up on trying to will himself to rest, sitting up carefully and planting his feet on the floor. Laura doesn’t stir when he stands, which means nothing, but helps relieve his guilt for the moment.

He isn’t entirely sure what he’s planning to do as he makes his way quietly down the stairs--he has a house full of sleeping Avengers, after all--but in the end he doesn’t have to make that decision. The front door is ajar, he notices as soon as he reaches the living room. He thinks that maybe it ought to alarm him, but his instincts say otherwise. He’s lived this particular scenario far too many times in the past. 

Taking a breath, he steps out onto the porch, unsurprised to see Natasha sitting huddled on the top step. 

“Hey,” he says gently, sitting down next to her. She glances at him sideways, but he can’t quite make out her eyes in the dark. “You with me?”

She nods once, curtly. “Sleeping--didn’t exactly seem like a good idea.”

“Think I know that feeling,” Clint agrees, reaching out and catching her hand, lacing their fingers. 

“I’m sorry,” says Natasha. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She doesn’t let go of his hand, though, doesn’t order him to go back in.

He shakes his head. “You didn’t.”

There’s a cool breeze stirring the night air, a chorus of crickets and frogs singing their hearts out. It ought to be peaceful, he thinks, but he still can’t quite focus on it. 

“Haven’t been here in a while,” says Natasha, giving him a sad little smile. 

“Here?” asks Clint, cocking his head toward the house, “Or _here_?” He gestures back toward the steps they’re sitting on. There’s a bittersweet sense of nostalgia about it--he spent plenty of nights like this with her, years ago, when she was first trying to banish the ghosts of her past.

She huffs out a laugh, a soft, bitter puff of breath. “Both.”

“Could’ve been better circumstances,” he agrees, though that could describe any number of his trips home, including the ones where she’s joined him. 

“The upgraded playroom looks good,” says Natasha, her tone carefully neutral, like this might be any other visit, like she hasn’t spent the majority of the past twenty-four hours lost in the labyrinth of her own mind.

Clint nods, though it’s a bit jarring to realize that project’s over six months old, that it really has been a long while since either of them had much downtime. Strucker was supposed to be the end of that road, but he probably should have learned years ago that these things never go as expected. “Thanks.”

Natasha falls silent again, the sounds of the night filling the space between them. Clint studies her for a long moment, trying to keep his anger over the situation at bay, remember that isn’t what she needs right now. She isn’t captive to the memories anymore--he’d know that look--but something is unquestionably wrong. There’s a distance between them that’s unsettling. 

“Porch needs painting,” he says finally, watching a moth land against the railing and unfurl its pale green wings a few more times before it goes still. The color of the sky is changing, subtly, turning the velvet blue that precedes dawn when there are no city lights to intervene. “And the kids want a tree house. Or--a Tree Fort, was the official demand.”

Natasha smiles, then shivers, running her hands over her upper arms and tucking the sweater she’s wearing closer. “Something tells me the boss would never forgive you.”

Clint shrugs, then drapes an arm around her shoulders, shifting like she might be able to use his body as a windbreak. “Probably. Was thinking of taking them camping this summer. Maybe after the baby comes, get them out of Laura’s hair for a night or two.”

“Sounds like one of you might need some backup,” says Natasha, leaning into him a little. 

“Sounds like we both will,” says Clint. “You figure out how to be in two places at once yet?”

She snorts. “Don’t I wish.”

“Well,” says Clint, turning serious again, “seems like Stark’s made a prime example of how _not_ to do that.”

“No,” she agrees. “But--Since when is us cleaning up Stark’s messes something new?”

“You know this one’s going to take all of us,” he says quietly, meeting her eyes again. “Right?”

She hesitates for a moment, then nods. “You think I’d let you go play Robot Hunter without me?”

Clint grins, though the relief he feels at that is immense. “You would never.”

“You should get some sleep,” says Natasha, though she makes no move to get up or go back inside the house.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “So should you.”

She nods again, but Clint already knows she isn’t going to listen. He also knows better than to try to push the issue. 

Instead he leans over and kisses her temple lightly, then gets to his feet. “See you in the morning?”

“See you after nap time, you mean,” says Natasha, nodding toward the sky, which is beginning to get lighter, but she’s smiling like the sunrise itself.

* * *

Everyone’s made it aboard the Helicarrier, she’s been told. Or everyone who wanted to, at any rate. She’s hardly seen Clint in the chaos of the fight, in her concern for getting the Hulk back and contained somehow. As the adrenaline fades, she finds her concern for Clint growing, finally decides that she needs to know where her partner is and what sort of condition he’s in.

She leaves the bridge without comment, making her way toward the hangar bay where she knows the lifeboats have docked. Her thought is to find someone to ask his whereabouts, but as soon as she steps into the bay, she can tell that it’s all but deserted. The civilians have been guided inside the ‘carrier, where there’s better temperature control and medical assistance.

She walks along the observation deck, surveying the boats. At least half of them have taken some sort of damage, a few probably beyond repair. They’ve all made it aboard with their passengers, though, and she tries to remind herself that ought to feel like a victory.

Natasha stops short when she catches sight of Clint, seated on the next lifeboat up from where she’s currently standing. His head is down, form barely more than a silhouette, but unmistakable all the same.

“Hey,” she breathes, climbing over the side of the boat and sitting down next to him.

Clint looks up at that, and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so haggard. He’s taken his vest off already, and she thinks she can see a blood stain against the dark fabric of his undershirt.

“Hey,” he echoes, swallowing visibly.

“You know,” says Natasha, “it’s a lot more comfortable inside.” The air of the bay is chilly, and filled with the metallic scent of burned jet fuel. 

“I know,” says Clint, not moving. He looks at her sideways. “The Maximoff kid--”

He breaks off and she nods. “Steve told me. He--was a hero.”

“Yeah,” Clint breathes. “Something like that.”

“So are you, you know,” says Natasha, resting a hand on his knee. 

He stiffens for half a second, instinctively, then turns to meet her eyes straight on. “Think you’re right, you know. I am getting too old for this.”

“But you’re not going to stop,” she says sadly, recognizing the truth of that in his face. She tries not to let him see how how much of a comfort that is, how much she still needs him in the field with her.

“No,” he whispers, reaching out.

Natasha meets him halfway, curling her fingers into his hair as he rests his head on her shoulder. Things are changing, she thinks, but she holds onto him stubbornly, as if she might be able to keep their lives entwined like this through it all.


End file.
